Celebrity Open
by Lieutenant Dan
Summary: Vince, Drama and E get spoofed on Seth Green's TV show after Medellin flops - they vow revenge... Ari convinces Vince to play in a celebrity tennis tournament for publicity. The boys mix with their hollywood peers at the tournament - with mixed results.
1. Chapter 1

E dropped down on the couch next to Turtle, Corona in hand. Turtle was watching cartoons. "What , no porn?"

Turtle took a pull off his bowl and waived the smoke away from E on the exhale. "Nah, not this time, bro," he croaked.

"One hand job from Jamie Lynn and you put your dick on a pedestal."

"Like you've had any this month."

"You got me there, man."

The front door swung open and Drama glided into the room. "Greetings, gentlemen," he said.

"You look even more relaxed than the pothead on my left," E said. He noted the plush towel slung over Drama's shoulder. "Where are you coming from, the gym?"

Drama waived him off. "From the rub-and-tug, my friends. A particularly effective session with Thailand's finest."

"You brought your own towel?"

Drama's eyes narrowed in disgust. "Like I'd use one of theirs. They could've been used as spunk swifters for all I know."

"That's a good fuckin' point," Turtle said from deep in the couch. "Miss Bangkok over there could be using them to mop up the peanut sauce."

"That sounds extremely odd, and I'm not even sure I want it explained," Vince said as he walked out of his room, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. "E, are we set with Ari?"

"Yeah, he said he has a project for us to consider."

"What is it?"

"He wouldn't say—wants us to come down."

"You fellas need me to drive?" Turtle asked.

"It's probably safer if I drive, Lebowski."

Turtle blew out a long cloud of smoke. He tried to say 'okay,' but only a cough came out.

"You need some backup, Baby Bro?" Drama asked. "Say the word and I'll bring the full weight of the Five Towns franchise upon Ari Gold."

"I'll be all right, Johnny—thanks. Shall we?"

"I'm ready," E said, popping on his sunglasses.

"Let's roll," Vince said.

--

Vince and Eric stepped off the elevator into the Miller Gold Agency. The top floor had all the cool of the fortress of solitude, but without Marlon Brando or the quiet.

"Did Ari ever rep Brando back in the day?" Vince asked.

"He was like three when _The Godfather_ came out."

"No, I meant after."

"Like on _The Island of Dr. Moreau_?"

Vince nodded and pointed at him. "Yeah, right."

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Lloyd said cheerily. "Ari is very anxious to see you."

Ari was putting golf balls in his office. "I'm anxious to see Vince," he called into the waiting area. "You and the leprechaun can play Shanghai tonsil hockey until he lets you hit the Dublin mudslide. Just take it someplace private."

"I might take offense to that if I thought Babs or your wife would even let you borrow your balls," E said. They walked into the office. Ari looked up from the green and gave Vince a hug around the neck before the movie star dropped into a couch.

"My balls," Ari said, "are hanging comfortably low and have gotten the three of us more cash than you could count in your pizza boy dreams. Now are we gonna talk business or do you wanna join Lloyd for that rice-meets-potatoes butt-fuck-fiesta we were discussing, because I'm leaving it on the table for you, big guy."

E sat down next to Vince. "What've you got for Vince, asshole?"

Ari dropped into a chair opposite the boys. He still clutched his putter like it was Gandalf's staff.

"Celebrity. Fucking. Tennis."

Vince and E looked at each other, and rose to their feet.

"Whoa, guys—come on. Hear me out."

"You know, I don't appreciate you dragging Vince and me down here for ridiculous bullshit," E said.

"And I don't appreciate you maneuvering our boy into a piece of donkey shit—

"_Medellin_ was my decision, Ari," Vince cut in. "So don't get on E about it."

"Fine, but the fact remains we are clawing out from the fucking rubble and we need to show the world that Vinnie Chase is a young sex machine of a movie star, and not a fuck up in a fat suit."

Vince raised his eyebrows.

Ari closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. "You are not a fuck up." He waived it away. "You know what I'm saying. We have to show the flag, and this Celebrity Open is a great fucking venue for us."

"It sounds kinda lame," Vince said.

"The US Open had record attendance and TV ratings last year. Some west coast guys wanted to wet their beaks and couldn't reach a deal with the USTA. They came up with this event and they're going to give a portion of the profits to charity."

"Give me a break, Ari," E said. "Who are they getting for this thing?"

"Russel Crowe and Christian Bale for starters. Bitch."

"Get the fuck out of here."

Vince leaned in. "Crowe and Bale?"

"They're calling it 3:10 to Wimbledon."

"Shit," E said in disbelief.

"So now you see why it will do Vince a world of good to be seen amongst these guys."

E looked at Vince and shrugged his 'maybe we should' shrug.

Vince nodded. "All right. I'm in. I'm decent at tennis—I would've been on the varsity team in high school, but I always missed practice."

"Too much ass really gets in the way of after-school athletics," E said.

"Or some might say it defines them," Vince answered.

Ari pointed at him. "Well said, Vinnie. That's why we work for you."

"Well I actually _was_ on the varsity team," E said, "and I still play once a week with Drama. I'll help you work on your game. How long do we have?"

"Two weeks, baby. So let's rock it—I want to see Vince looking good out there."

Vince and E stood up to walk out.

"Oh, Ari," Vince said. "Did you ever rep Brando in the later years?"

Ari rolled his eyes. "Yeah—he came over to Terrance and me for _The Score_. We practically spent the whole commission getting a separate buffet for him on set. Fat fuck anti-Semite."

"The horror," E said. He and Vince chuckled and walked out.

"But then you already knew that, since he ordered in Sbarro's all the time," Ari called after him. "Cock smoker."

--

Vince and E walked back into the penthouse. Turtle hadn't moved, but he had half a Chinese buffet set up on the coffee table.

"Jesus, Turtle—you're still watching cartoons?" E asked.

"Yo, you guys have to see this shit—they're ripping Vince a new one."

On the TV, an Aquaman action figure was dressed up in a white suit and was sporting a latin-fro wig. The action figure was spouting off in Spanish while subtitles scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

"What the hell is this?" Vince asked.

"I dunno," Turtle said.

"They're spoofing Vince and _Medellin_," E said. "The fucks."

"Whatever," Vince said, sounding tired. "I gotta get used to this shit."

A _Viking Quest_ Tarbull action figure jumped into the frame.

"Yo, there's Drama!" Turtle said.

Drama burst out of his room. "What happened?" He stopped when he saw the TV. "They have a collectible Tarbull action figure—second wave, I'd say. Could catch a pretty penny on the fanboy circuit."

Aquaman-Escobar spoke again and the subtitle flashed: _Looks like I'm a bigger loser than my brother now. I'd better fire my little pussy manager._

"Someone's getting their fucking ass kicked for this," Drama said darkly.

"This is fucked up, E," Vince said. "They crossed the line."

"Turtle, what goddamn show is this?" E asked.

Turtle spoke through a mouthful of lo-mein. "Something chicken… or something."

"_Robot_ Chicken?"

"Yeah," Turtle smiled.

"Son of a bitch!"

"What?" Vince asked. "What is it?"

The episode ended and the credits came up. The answer hovered in their faces like a middle finger.

CREATED BY SETH GREEN.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: In the spirit of _Entourage_, this story features real-life celebrities portrayed as fictional versions of themselves. The content of this story is fictional, as are the actions and motivations of the characters therein. No celebrity has endorsed or participated in this story.

**CHAPTER 2**

Vince tossed a tennis ball up in the air and brought his racket down across it. The green ball shot straight into the net.

"Little late," E said. "And come towards the baseline."

"Did Ari call yet?"

"No. I'll try him again." E pulled out his blackberry. He nodded to Vince that he had him on the line. "Ari, we gotta talk."

"Yeah, I got your messages," Ari said from behind his desk. He had E on speakerphone. "Found the shit on youtube. That little prick has some balls, going after our boy like that."

"It's not about Vince, it's about me. The guy's got it in for me."

"Eric, you're being very narcissistic—it's a nice quality for you and I encourage you to develop it, but a manager needs to be a realist, too."

"No, dick, I'm serious."

"Yeah, yeah, I know—he played bury-the-brisket with your former lady friend between takes on _Buffy_ and now you're mortal enemies. It's fucking boring. You weren't there first, E. Neither was Columbus, but he still got to fuck a few feathered hotties and they named a town after him."

"I hear you, Ari," E said. "I guess you had to adopt that mindset after that eighties sex tape of Mrs. Ari and Jack Wagner hit the web last year."

"Shut the fuck—what sex tape?"

"I don't know—I only watched a few minutes. But she was hot in her prime."

Ari yanked the handset off of the base. "That's the mother of my children, you fucking McNugget. If you—

"Whoa, easy there. What do you give a shit if some D-lister hit it first?"

"You're full of shit," Ari said firmly.

"Yeah," E agreed. "I am."

Ari laughed, somewhat uncomfortably.

"It's a little different when you love the girl, right?" E asked.

Ari closed his eyes. "Let me talk to Vince."

"Fine, hold on."

"And Eric?"

"Yeah?"

He raised a fist in the air and held it there. "There's really no sex tape, right?"

"Not with Wagner."

"_What do you mean not with_—

"Yo, Vince! Come into net."

Vince jogged to the center of the tennis court and E tossed him the phone.

"Ari?"

"Vinnie, what's happening, baby?"

"I'm a little pissed."

"Fuck that punk. We'll be back on top in a year and he'll still be doing voiceovers with Mark Hamill."

"If it were just me, I wouldn't give a shit, but he went after E and my brother. It isn't right."

"Drama can use the press and E will get over it."

"I'm not over it."

"Vin, come on. What do you want to do here?"

"I think I want some payback."

"I like the fire. What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know. I thought you could come up with something."

"I'll look into it. But keep it in your pants until I get back to you—we can't afford any more setbacks right now."

--

Drama dished scrambled eggs onto everyone's plates. "I made a few inquiries," he said. "And we could have Seth Green wind up as an ingredient in several cans of Alpo for a hundred G's. Just say the word, Vince."

"We're not having him whacked, Drama," E said.

"I'm just saying it's an option."

"Well here's another option," Turtle said. "I still have some connections in the world of hip-hop. Maybe I let it slip to a few select people that Seth Green is no friend to the brothers. He'll be at some club and get the shit kicked out of him in no time."

"It's too impersonal," Vince said. "There has to be a reckoning."

E studied Vince over the rim of his coffee mug.

"What, you want to delegate it, Mr. Manager?"

E shook his head. "I just don't get why this is so important. Since when do you give a shit what anyone says about anyone else?"

"No one goes after my boys."

"Bullshit. In high school you never reacted to any of the shit anyone said about any of us. Until a punch got thrown you were an impartial observer."

"Whatever. Today, right now, I want Seth Green to feel some pain—professionally, physically—I don't care which."

E's phone rang. "It's Ari."

"Put him on speaker."

"Ari, you're on speaker," E said. "It's just the four of us."

"Vinnie, I've done some digging."

"And?"

"Little Seth is pursuing a script put out by one of my buddy Andrew Klein's writers. I can call in a favor and the shit gets put out of his reach permanently."

"That's not really the embarrassing blow I had in mind, Ari."

"I also found out who he's dating."

"So?"

"So you can _fuck_ her and make sure he finds out about it. If he comes looking for you, you kick the _shit_ out of him. Humiliation times two, baby."

"I like it," Drama said.

"It's sleazy," Vince said. "And I can't imagine Seth caring enough about a chick to give a shit."

"Well, he is obsessed with Sloan," E said.

"Perfect—Vince—fuck Sloan," Ari said. "E's done with her anyway, he won't mind, right?"

"Eat shit, Ari."

"Got any Sbarros?"

"Hey, hey—I got it," Vince said. "The fucking tennis tournament. I'll challenge Seth."

"No, no Vinnie—scratch that off the list."

"Why?"

"Why? Because it's lame, Vin. You're a man of style, and this shit has no style."

"I disagree," Vince said.

"Vince, please."

"What? What is it, Ari?"

Ari let out a long breath. "You cannot challenge Seth."

"What do you have that you're not telling us," E demanded.

Ari put a hand to the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "Little Seth is a child actor and a suburban Jew, and that means he plays tennis like a mother fucker. I asked around. The prick has a half-dozen country club championships under his belt. And word is Breckin's not far behind. _And_ their dipshit cartoon network lifestyle leaves them plenty of time to practice."

A silence fell over the table.

"Vince, just fuck his girlfriend, man," Turtle urged him. "That's _your_ championship sport. Why take a chance on getting humiliated by this asshole again?"

"Turtle makes an excellent point, and I have to admit I'm astounded," Ari said. "I personally and professionally recommend Plan B."

Vince thought about it for several moments while the guys watched him.

"No," he said finally. "Johnny and me will take these guys down at the Open."

"We will?" Drama asked nervously.

"Yeah. Who can stop the Chase brothers, right?"

"Vinnie, please," Ari said. "Sleep on this shit. These guys are serious fucking racket jocks."

"I don't care. I want to have it out with them in a legal, straight-up battle and this is the best we're gonna get."

Ari sighed. "All right. I'll put a few things in motion to make sure your team gets matched up against theirs. Drama, you'd better be a kick ass fucking tennis player. And Vin, you'd better practice your ass off for the next two weeks. E—you be his Yoda, even if you are shorter."

"Don't worry about it, Ari," Vince said. "Those guys are getting destroyed."

"Okay, guys. Later."

Ari hung up and rolled back from his desk. He let his head roll back so that he was looking at the ceiling. "Fuck," he groaned. He let his head roll to the left. _"Lloyd!"_

Lloyd trotted in. "Yes, Ari."

"Get me Shauna. Vince is gonna crash and burn at this goddamn tournament and we need to have a rescue plan in place."

_**To be continued… **_


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: In the spirit of _Entourage_, this story features real-life celebrities portrayed as fictional versions of themselves. The content of this story is fictional, as are the actions and motivations of the characters therein. No celebrity has endorsed or participated in this story.

**CHAPTER 3**

Vince, E, Drama and Turtle walked along the promenade of the first annual Celebrity Open.

"Yo, this is so fuckin' sick," Turtle said. He walked slightly hunched over from the weight of the racket bags on his back. "There's celebrity hotties everywhere. I didn't know this was a ladies tournament, too."

"Maybe you should ease up on the weed, then, retard," E said. "No marketing exec in this town is going to miss an opportunity to have the most gorgeous women in the world running around in little white skirts."

Drama scoped the scene from behind impenetrable sunglasses. Sweat beaded on his brow. "This heat is murder. Did you bring my SPF 30, Turtle?"

"Yes, Drama." He rolled his eyes. "Fuckin' snowman."

Drama whirled around. "Hey, you're lucky to be in here with genuine industry professionals like the rest of us. Now hand me my towel."

"Vince, would you tell these guys to lay off me?"

Vince didn't respond. His usual easy manner was now cold and rigid. His eyes continually scanned the throngs of players and spectators.

"Hey," E said. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Vince said.

"You nervous?"

"No. Just a man on a mission."

"Vince?" a woman's voice called from behind.

They all turned around.

"Hi!" It was Mila Kunis, the exotic, dark-haired actress.

"Hey," Vince said flatly. He gave the perfunctory one-armed hug and kiss on the cheek.

"God, I haven't seen you since Jaime Presley's party. How are you?"

"Getting by."

She frowned. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry _Medellin_ didn't work out for you. I thought you were great in it."

"Thanks." He forced a light smile. "I saw _Forgetting Sarah Marshall_ a couple of weeks ago. You were amazing—I fell in love with your character in a big way."

She smiled mischievously. "Well let's hang out some time. You can fall in love with the real me."

Vince smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes. He looked away. Turtle cleared his throat in discomfort. Mila's own smile faltered and embarrassment clouded her face.

"Okay, well—whatever—see you later."

She turned to walk away and Vince grabbed her arm.

"Wait. I'm sorry. I'm distracted. Seth Green insulted my boys and I'm playing him in the tournament."

"Seth?" She shook her head in annoyance. "He's such a childish prick sometimes."

"You know him?" E asked.

"Yeah… from _Family Guy_." Everyone stared at her blankly. "He's Chris, I'm Meg…"

"Who's Meg?" Turtle asked.

E smacked his chest. "She's the mom, dick. How do you change your voice so much for that character?"

She was getting annoyed. "I don't play the mom- I'm the daughter. _Meg_."

"They have a daughter?" Turtle asked. E put his face in his hand.

She sighed. "Yep. The joke of her character is that she's completely forgettable and insignificant. Nice to know it works."

"Hey, listen," E said. "I'm sorry. We love your other work. We were just watching _That Seventies Show_, in fact." He looked over at Drama, who was inscrutable behind his shades. "That was the other day, right Drama?"

"I don't watch sitcoms," he said.

"You know what," she said with a cruel smile. "Fuck you guys. Seth is going to wipe your asses off the court." She stormed off, her tennis skirt fluttering above gorgeously tanned legs.

"Nice work, guys," Vince said, still scanning the faces in the crowd. He noted all the celebs talking to fans and to the press. He had yet to be approached by either.

"More where that came from, bro," Drama said. "Besides, you can't be trucking with the star of a cancelled sitcom."

"At least she's got a steady cartoon gig," he said. "I can't even book a sweet-sixteen these days."

"Hey—I apologized for that," Drama said.

"You puked on the girl's fucking cake, ass head," Turtle said. "Your drunken, broken heart bullshit cost Vince two hundred G's."

"Guys, shut up," E said. "Here comes Ari."

"So what? He doesn't know Drama's a fuck up?" Turtle asked.

"I want to hear what the story is for the match."

Ari swaggered over. He was wearing a linen suit over a black polo. He flashed a shark's grin.

"We're all set boys," he said, slapping a hand into Vince's. "I fixed us up sweet."

"How so?" Vince asked.

"All you have to do is win the first round. If Sethy does the same, you're set to square off in a battle-fucking-royale in round two."

"Who do we play in the first?"

Ari smiled. "Kevin Smith."

Vince's eyes widened.

Drama laughed and clapped him on the back. "It's in the bag, bro. We'll run his flabby ass into the ground."

"Wait," E said. "Who's his partner? It's not Affleck, is it?"

Ari waved him off. "Nah, it's that fucking Kato kid he keeps around. Jason something."

"Holy shit," Turtle said. "You guys are playing Jay and Silent Bob?"

Vince shook his head. He looked positively forlorn. "I can't believe what it's come to."

- - -

Vince and Drama approached the net at the center of the court, and their opponents. The actor/director Kevin Smith wore his signature trench coat over a plus-sized white polo and jean shorts that hit well below the knees. His companion, Jason "Jay" Mewes, wore a loose hanging wife-beater and long basket ball shorts. Tattoos covered his exposed arms and legs. He looked Vince up and down.

"Well would you look at this morose motherfucker right here," he said.

"I'm sorry?" Vince said.

"Ease up, man," Kevin said to Jay. "This cat's had a rough couple of months." He extended a hand. Vince shook it apprehensively.

"Vinnie Chase," Kevin said. "Aquaman on land. This is a thrill and a half, sir."

"Thanks. This is my brother, Johnny Chase."

Drama shook his hand. "Yeah, we've met. How have you been?"

Kevin looked confused. "Have we met?"

Drama cleared his throat and took on a forced casualness. "Yeah, I was in the second unit on _Mallrats_."

"Right on," Kevin said.

A voice came over the stadium loudspeakers. _"Our umpire for this first round match is a legendary actor who's starred in such films as _The Buddy Holly Story _and_ Lethal Weapon."

"Oh, no way," Vince said, shooting a look at Drama.

"They got Joe Pesci for this shit?" Jay asked.

_"Please welcome… Gary Busey."_

Busey walked out to applause. He climbed up into the ump's chair. His nose was sun blocked to solid white and he wore mirrored sunglasses and a white fisherman's hat. A whistle hung from his neck.

Drama waived. "Hey, Gary."

Busey continued to stare straight ahead. "This is a rite of passage, John," he said ominously. "But do you have the right?"

Drama looked at Vince. Vince looked at Kevin.

"You guys want to serve first?"

- - -

A few games in, E stepped away from the match to grab a drink. Vince and Drama were decimating their Jersey-boy opponents, so he felt comfortable leaving for a few minutes.

As he paid for his Heineken, he heard an abrasive voice from behind.

"Suit."

He hung his head and sighed. "Billy Walsh." E turned around to face him.

Billy looked horrible. His greasy his hair hung over sunken eyes. His beard was completely unkempt. A cigarette hung sadly out of the corner of his mouth. He was wearing an early-nineties Agassi-style neon green tennis shirt with loudly clashing plaid shorts. He clutched an old wooden racket. In his hands, it looked a caveman's club.

E spoke cautiously. "How are things?"

"My life's in the shitter, but I just had anal sex with a Thai hooker, so things seem a little more positive at the moment. You saw what they did to our fucking film?"

"What who did?"

Billy walked up to the counter. E saw that the back of his shirt had 'FUCK THE HACKS' spelled out in black electrical tape.

"Give me an American beer. None of that pussy Dutch boy shit that my friend the suit here gravitates to." He turned to E. "No offense."

"Oh, none taken," E said.

"The fucking Weingarten Group," Billy continued, beer in hand. "They hacked up my fucking vision and turned it into a direct-to-video, Cinemax-2, bargain rack pile of shit. Wouldn't even let me lay down a commentary track."

"I'm sorry, man. We're all hurting from the aftermath."

Billy stopped and leaned in close to E. It became readily apparent that he was already drunk. "If I thought I'd hurt Vince in any way, I'd have a pistol in my mouth right now. You know that, suit."

"I know, Billy."

"But it wasn't me this time. My cut could have overcome the Cannes bullshit and the fucking media bashing. But that goddamn hack studio exec desecrated it, and he fucked us all in the process."

_And here I thought it was your maniacal, second-rate Apocalypse-Now antics that fucked us._

E just nodded, and tried to figure out a way to get away from him.

"There's a reckoning coming, suit. You mark my fucking words."

And with that, Billy lurched away.

- - -

Vince put a beautiful drop shot over the net. Kevin ran in for it, but he never had a chance.

"Forty-love," Gary Busey announced from the ump chair. "Set point to Chase brothers."

Kevin was standing mid-court with his hands on his knees. He was gasping for air."

"Hey, Kevin—you okay?" Vince asked.

"I think he's having a coronary," Drama muttered. "If he drops, we win by default."

Jay went over to Kevin. "Come on, lunch box—breathe."

"He should take that coat off, man," Vince said. "It's like ninety degrees out here."

"Can't," Kevin wheezed.

"What? Why?"

"Tubby here never sheds his armor in public," Jay answered.

And with that, Kevin feinted to the ground, out cold. The crowd rose to their feet nervously.

Busey blew his whistle and leapt from his chair to the court. "Man down! Stand aside. I'll use my life force to revive him."

"Are you gonna do mouth-to-mouth?" Jay asked.

Busey skidded to a halt next to Kevin. "I don't need to use my mouth on a man."

"Amen to that," Drama muttered.

Busey closed his eyes and started making slow, circular motions with his open hand an inch above Kevin's chest. He threw his head back and began chanting in a foreign language.

- - -

As the tournament spectators watched the scene unfolding below, Ari spoke animatedly into his cell phone. "I don't know what else to tell you, baby—there's no way I can make dinner tonight, I'm working." He paused as she replied, and then dived back in. "Yeah, no shit Ellen's husband makes dinner every night, ICM fucking fired him two weeks ago." A pause. "I bet she doesn't know, either. He's probably sucking off trannys on Santa Monica to put food on the table and cover her fucking vicodin habit." Another pause. "No, what's ridiculous is how much shaft he must be guzzling to float her worthless—

He stopped as a man in a light colored suit dropped into the empty seat next to him.

"Hello, Ari," Terrance said.

"I gotta call you back, honey." Ari shut his phone.

"I do love to hear a discussion of admirable family values," Terrance said. "Interesting match," he added idly.

"Yeah, I'm dying to see how this one ends," Ari said, gesturing to the unconscious bulk sprawled out on the court. "I'm surprised to see you at this match."

"I've been moving from court to court," Terrance said. "There's scarcely a round being played in this tournament that doesn't have one of my clients participating."

"So what, you rep the clerks down there?"

"I'm afraid not, although Gary is, of course, one of mine."

Busey was now dancing spiritedly around the unmoving form of Kevin Smith and chanting his head off.

"You must be very proud," Ari said.

"Well, he does still get some acting work on occasion, which is perhaps more than can be said of the once promising Mr. Chase."

Ari fixed him with a hard stare. "Vinnie will be back. Count on it."

"Oh, I've no doubt," Terrance said jovially. "Actually, I really just wanted to come by to wish you luck in the next round. They'll need it, I daresay."

Ari cleared his throat. "Who are they playing in the next round?"

"Oh, come now, Ari. Word's gotten out. I know what lengths you went to to put Vincent and Seth together on the court. What I'm wondering is why you're purposely positioning your client to play a match he'll lose so embarrassingly."

Ari forced a grin. "What can I say—Vinnie just really wanted to meet Seth."

"The matter of Seth's cartoon, no doubt." He smiled at Ari. "Pride comes before a fall."

"Well, you'd know, you limey fuck."

Terrance's smile faltered for a moment, then returned. "Seth is a patron of my agency, and his direct representative tells me he's a professional-quality tennis player." He stood. "I look forward to seeing him put another nail in Mr. Chase's coffin. Good day."

Ari watched him walk away.

"You better come through on this one, Vin," he said to himself.

_**To be continued…**_


	4. Chapter 4

DISCLAIMER: In the spirit of _Entourage_, this story features real-life celebrities portrayed as fictional versions of themselves. The content of this story is fictional, as are the actions and motivations of the characters therein. No celebrity has endorsed or participated in this story.

CHAPTER 4

The paramedics carried off a now-conscious and very disturbed looking Kevin Smith.

Drama brought his hand up for a high-five. "That's one-and-oh for the Chase brothers."

Vince brought his hand to Drama's without enthusiasm. "Yeah, we earned that one."

Drama scoffed. "Who gives a shit? Point is, we won our first bout, and expended minimal energy doing so. The reserve tank is still full for taking on that fuck Seth Green in round two."

A ball boy approached them. "Towel, gentlemen?"

"Negative," Drama said curtly. "You won't find actors of our caliber partaking in public sweat sponges." He looked off to the sidelines, where Turtle was macking on somebody's assistant, a hot little Asian number. "Turtle!"

Vince rolled his eyes, and then extended a hand to the ball boy. "I'll take one, man—thanks."

As the boy walked away, Vince shot Drama an annoyed look. "Can you try to be a little nicer? I'm trying to win back the public's affection. Being a douche bag to the help isn't exactly conducive to that."

"First," Drama said, "if you want to be perceived as a movie star, you need to act like one. Second—you use those fucking recycled towels at your own peril. That thing could've been dabbing Bjorn Borg's balls at Wimbledon of yesteryear."

Vince finished drying his brow. "Awesome, Johnny—thanks for that."

"Turtle!" Drama shouted. "Come on, earn your allowance over here."

Turtle tore himself away from the girl and walked over, shaking his head. "You're a cock-blocking prima-donna, you know that?"

"Just bring me a clean towel—you're talking your way out of a job."

"God willing," Turtle said.

They made their way off court, where E greeted them. "I saw the stretcher. I'm gonna take that as a win?"

"Yeah, big win," Vince said.

"You're not gonna believe who I just ran into," E said.

Ari came over. "Walk and talk, guys. We have to get over to court six."

The four boys and Ari walked towards the big match. E's tale of his Billy Walsh encounter was an almost welcome distraction from the impending duel with Seth Green.

"Look, I love Billy and I know he means well," Vince said, "but I can't deal with him today, so let's try to steer clear."

Ari grabbed E's shoulder. "If that pycho beatnik asshole approaches Vince," he said, "you tell him we're going in a different direction, and that direction is a hundred-eighty fucking degrees from wherever the hell he's at."

"Agreed, but I think we need to phrase it a little more carefully," E said. "The guy's pretty unhinged."

"E!" a jovial voice called out.

His hackles went up. He knew that voice. They all turned around.

Seth Green had come up behind them. He was wearing classic tennis whites, but with an urban-style visor hat that his spiked-up hair erupted out of. His eyes were hidden by tremendous silver sunglasses. He flashed his ever-present jackal's grin.

"What up, E?" he asked. Seth had a squad of dickhead peons from his posse in tow.

"We've got nothing to say to you, Seth," E answered. "We'll settle our business on the court."

"Damn, E. That's cold. Guess I was right about you being on the rag, 'cause I can smell _your pussy_ from here!" There was the requisite laughter from his crew.

Ari leaned forward to retort, but Vince had already gotten in Seth's face. He had to bend over a bit to do so, given their height difference.

"Now you listen to me, you cackling fuck."

Seth pulled off his shades.

"You don't talk to E, you don't talk about E," Vince said. "Or any of these guys."

"Oh, but I do, Vince, I really do," Seth said. "And I've got so much more to say."

"Then we have a serious problem."

They stared each other down for several tense moments.

Ari put a hand on Vince's arm. "Come on, Vin—not here, baby."

"Now—me, Vince," Seth said, "I don't put any limitations on you." He turned to his crew. "God knows he has enough as it is." As they laughed, he looked back at Vince. "We can dance anywhere you want, Escobar. Any time."

Just then, a tall, gorgeous black girl sidled up to Seth and kissed him on the neck. She straightened up, now standing a head taller than Seth. She looked at Vince and smiled.

"Is my man here being fresh with you, Mr. Chase?"

"A bit," Vince answered. He flashed her his best movie star grin. "I know you from somewhere, don't I?"

"Cover of Maxim this month, Vince," Seth boasted. "Don't hate me, big guy."

Vince didn't take the bait, and he kept his eyes locked on hers. "I knew beauty like yours had to be in the media somewhere. But I thought maybe we'd met before."

"Wishful thinking, man," Seth said, putting an arm around her waist.

Vince nodded, still hitting her with the high beams. "It is, Seth. It really is."

Her smile softened a bit, and her eyes widened.

Turtle leaned over to whisper to Drama. "Dude, she just got moist—Vince got her in the tractor beam."

Seth looked from her, to Vince, and back to her. He gave her a light pat on the ass. "Okay, baby, come on—I'm working. Go grab a seat for the game."

She sighed, gave Vince one more smile, and sauntered off.

"Hey, what's your name?" Vince called after her.

Now Seth got tight. "Yo, what's your problem, man?"

Vince didn't answer, and continued looking at the girl.

"Monique Monroe," she said.

Vince gave her the big smile one more time. "I'll see you, Monique."

She left, and he turned back to Seth. "You sure I'm the guy you want to be messing with?"

Seth chuckled and shook his head. "You know how it is in this town, Vince. The bitches are everywhere, and I don't sweat her, just like I didn't sweat E's little lady back in the day." He looked past Vince. "Right, E?"

"It's old material, Seth," E said, "and it was bullshit the first time."

"E, seriously—we're all friends here—how many times did Sloan mention my cock in bed?"

E moved in towards him, and Vince put a hand on his chest to keep him back.

"We'll finish this on the court," Vince said. "You'd better watch your ass out there."

Seth laughed sharply. "Right, right." He put his racket over his shoulder. "This is gonna be awesome, guys. Really. E, I wish you could join us, but nobody knows you exist, which kind of throws off the whole Celebrity Open thing." He cocked a head in Drama's direction. "Bringing Viking Quest here along is enough of a stretch as it is."

Drama jerked like he'd been stung. He made as though he would retort, but nothing came to him.

Ari spoke up. "At least _Five Towns_ isn't on late night cable, dipshit."

"Yeah," Drama chimed in.

"Well," said Seth, "we all gotta hold on to something, right?" He saluted with his racket. "I'll see you out there, boys."

Vince and Drama each stood at opposite corners of the baseline, firing practice serves across the court. Seth and his doubles partner, Breckin Meyer, sat relaxed on a bench on the opposite side, apparently discussing the Chase brothers' technique. They laughed regularly.

"I'll tell you what, baby bro," Drama said. "Either we beat them, or we beat the shit out of them. I'll feel some satisfaction either way."

Vince didn't answer, but instead nailed another ball across the net. It went long. Seth gave him a silent thumbs up from the far end.

Ari and E walked out onto the court.

"Now listen to me," Ari said. "You own these fucking pricks. Vinnie—you are the star of the highest grossing film of all time. You're a sex symbol the world over, and every woman in those stands wants to fuck you hard."

"Nice, Ari," Vince said.

"You're the fucking _man_, Vinnie. And you can do this—you too, Drama."

"Thanks for remembering me," he mumbled.

"Hey—who's starring in this season's hottest primetime drama, huh? You're like Travolta in _Pulp Fiction_. You're _back_, motherfucker, and everyone loves that you're back."

Drama grinned broadly. "Thanks, man."

The announcer's voice came over the P.A. system. "_Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The match is about to begin."_

Ari spoke quickly. "Guys, remember—no matter what, keep cool. The cameras are rolling and we can't come off as the bad guys. Destroy these fucks—but do it nicely for the folks at home."

E shook their hands. He shot a glance back at Seth. The prick smiled and waived at him.

He looked Vince hard in the eyes.

"Fuck 'em up," he said.

"Count on it," Vince answered.

Ari and E went back to the stands, and Vince and Drama were alone on a court that now felt massive. Hundreds of industry spectators looked down on them from the risers. Vince's hands began to sweat. He felt nervousness for the first time in ages.

Seth and Breckin stood, and made their way towards the net.

Vince exhaled slowly. "Come, on," he said. "Let's get the pleasantries out of the way. Remember—be Hollywood."

"Fuck that," Drama muttered.

Turtle dropped into a courtside seat. The section was normally reserved for coaches and trainers, but for this event, it was being occupied by celebrity staff and assistants. There were a couple of publicists sitting a few seats down who didn't spare him a glance. He set down Drama's heavy duffel bag and cursed his neurotic tendencies for the millionth time.

A girl's voice came from behind. "Hey, Turtle."

He turned around, and a huge smile came to his face. It was that hot little Asian girl from before. She hopped down into the seat next to him.

"What's up, sweetheart?"

"I told you—I'm here with Breckin."

Turtle looked out at the court, where Vince and Drama were shaking hands with Seth and Breckin.

"Oh, that's right—you're his assistant."

"Yeah. But I don't think he's going to need my services for the next hour or so. Can you get away?"

Turtle hesitated. "This is a big match for Vince, honey. I don't know if I can—

"Come on," she insisted. "We can find someplace private." She caressed his thigh.

He took one last glance at the court. The four actors were smiling and laughing.

He shrugged. "Let's do it."

She kissed him on the cheek, and let her lips linger there for a moment.

"Oh, we will," she whispered.

Vince and Seth shook hands across the net.

"I'd say we're gonna try not to embarrass you guys too badly," Seth said, "but that would be total bullshit."

"Total bullshit," Breckin echoed.

"Hey, did they call you in for _Garfield 2_, yet, chief?" Drama asked.

Breckin frowned. "No. It doesn't shoot for another year," Breckin said.

"Jesus," Drama said.

"What?"

He leaned in. "It was a joke, dick. I never actually thought they'd sequel that piece of shit."

Vince gave a big, friendly, showman's laugh. He reached across the net and clapped Breckin on the shoulder.

Seth laughed, too. "Hey, Johnny—what's this I hear about you being shit-canned off an M.O.W. for jizzing on Brooke Shield's leg mid-take?"

Drama was about to retort when Vince interjected. "Have a great match, guys." He turned his brother around and they walked back towards the baseline.

"_Ladies and gentlemen,"_ the announcer's voice boomed. "_We regret to announce that, due to illness, Jeffrey Tambor will not be serving as umpire for this match."_

"What freak show do you think they'll stick us with now?" Drama asked.

"_Standing in is a man who needs no introduction in this city, or anywhere in the film-loving world. An executive producer whose work drives the direction of today's cinematic arts. Please give a warm welcome to Mr. Harvey Weingarten!"_

Vince and Drama exchanged a horrified look.

They heard a howl from the stands, softened by distance. It was Ari. _"Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!"_

_**To be continued…**_


	5. Chapter 5

DISCLAIMER: In the spirit of _Entourage_, this story features real-life celebrities portrayed as fictional versions of themselves. The content of this story is fictional, as are the actions and motivations of the characters therein. No celebrity has endorsed or participated in this story.

CHAPTER 5

Seth Green fired a serve over the net at Vince. It whipped past him before he could even bring his racquet back, but it didn't matter—the shot went over the line by several inches.

Harvey Weingarten leaned forward, straining against his own bulk. Before he spoke into the microphone, he glared at Vince. "Forty – love."

This is how it had gone for the last several games. Any time the Green/Meyer crew missed a shot by less than a country mile, Harvey called it good. Of course, if the Chase brothers hit a shot that just made it in, the bastard called it against them every time. They were down five games to nothing, and Seth would now serve for the first set.

Drama threw up his hand. "Oh, come on, ump!"

Vince tried to intervene. "Johnny—

Drama approached the chair. "I know we've had our differences in matters of business, Harvey, but this is a charity event, and I appeal to your kinder nature."

Harvey put a meaty hand over the mike and leaned down towards Drama. "It's Mr. Weingarten to you. And you guys can go fuck yourselves—dry, in the ass. Ari, too."

He took his hand off the mike and spoke into it. "Call stands, score is forty – love. Set point"

Drama shook his head in disgust, and a few beads of sweat sprinkled off of him. He searched the stands. "Where the hell's Turtle?" A ball boy gestured with a fresh white towel, letting Drama know he was covered. Drama ignored him and headed back to the base line.

"We're fucked, baby bro."

"Hang in there, Johnny," Vince said. "We just have to—

"_Hey!"_

Vince and Drama—and everyone else in the stands—turned to see a drunk, feral Billy Walsh stagger his way down to the court. He clutched his seventies wooden racquet menacingly. He pointed it straight at Harvey, like Babe Ruth calling his shot.

"You can't call a game any better than you produce a film, you fucking hack."

Harvey made a show of trying to laugh it off, but his reddening face gave off his anger like beacon. "You again? Come on—get the hell out of here. You're boring. Like your movies."

Billy threw a leg over the outer wall and stumbled onto the court, his eyes never leaving Harvey. Harvey rose to his feet, still up in his umpire chair.

"My film was a work of art, and you stole it from us." Billy made a circular gesture with his racquet to make it clear the Chase brothers were stolen from as well. Harvey was now trembling with rage.

Billy turned his back on Harvey and addressed the crowd. "You whored it out like the fat fucking pimp you are."

Harvey leapt down from his chair and charged like a bull, screaming and cursing the whole way.

Billy whirled around and brought back his Slazenger. "Come on, hack!"

He whipped the racket into Harvey's bulk, splitting the wooden neck, sending the strung head spinning away. Harvey slammed into Billy like a freight train, taking him off of his feet. Billy took Harvey in a headlock and hung on like the monkey from _Indiana Jones_ as the rotund film exec ran him around the court, howling threats and profanity.

"Jesus!" Vince said. Harvey tripped over the net and the two crazed film makers rolled onto the cement. Billy sprung onto Harvey and pummeled him with both fists.

Seth moved to a safe distance and continued to laugh his ass off. Breckin produced a cell phone and filmed the spectacle.

Drama smiled broadly. "Can you fucking believe this?" To Vince's surprise, he realized he was smiling, too.

"Billy always said he had my back."

A half-dozen cops ran onto the court and pulled Billy and Harvey apart.

They cuffed them both.

* * *

Ari was on his feet along with the rest of the spectators, grinning ear to ear. "No craft service in the slam, you fat fuck."

It occurred to him at that moment that the match was now at a standstill. He whipped out his phone. "You're watching this?"

"Yes, Ari," Lloyd answered from his desk. He was streaming the game on his computer. "The violence is shocking."

"Yeah, yeah – fuck that. What's McEnroe saying up in the booth? They gonna get the game fired back up?"

"They're explaining that every match has an umpire and a backup, but Harvey _was_ the backup for Jeffrey Tambor and now there's no designated alternate."

"Fuck," Ari said. "Well, shit—can I do it?"

The voice came back on the loudspeakers. _"Ladies and gentlemen. We need to select a new umpire to continue the match. As per tournament rules, the umpire must have expert knowledge of tennis rules, and may not be a direct representative or current business partner of any of the players."_

Ari thrust dual curse fingers up to the sky and dropped heavily into his seat.

* * *

E hopped the wall and came over to Vince and Drama. The spectators were milling about idly, chatting it up and comparing cell phone video footage of the fight. "It's a fucking circus in here," he said. "At least Billy finally did us a favor."

"Took out Harvey like Lee Harvey," Drama said.

"He took one for the team," Vince said. "Let's just hope they can find an ump that doesn't hate us so much."

Seth and Breckin stepped up the net. "Don't sweat this, guys," Seth called out to them. "Whoever they pick to judge the match can't possibly have business affiliation with Vince. I mean, your calendar is pretty wide open these days, right Vince?"

Vince broke off and walked to the net. E and Drama followed, ready to stop a fight or jump into one—whatever the occasion called for.

They were intercepted by a tournament official who trotted out onto the court. "All right, gentlemen – we can continue as soon as a qualified umpire is selected."

"And how long is that going to take?" Vince asked, glaring hard at Seth.

The official shrugged. "Depends who volunteers."

"Is Alan Green available?" Seth asked. "He told me he's a huge supporter of Vince's."

Vince jabbed a finger at Seth. "You're about to get your fucking teeth knocked out."

The crowd hushed rapidly as it became evident that words were being exchanged. Seth flashed a grin and stood his ground. "Go for it, man. Maybe you'd feel tougher if you had on your Escobar fat suit."

Someone in the crowd shouted in the distance. _"Hit him, Vince!"_

Vince was sorely tempted. But he knew that to take a swing at another actor at a charity event would only further alienate him. And while he might be willing to risk that for himself, he didn't want to ruin things for his boys in the process.

The two sides faced off silently. The tension was palpable and the crowd remained silent, desperate to hear and see every detail of the next portion of this insanity.

And amidst all that, a tall, elderly man stood up three rows back from courtside. He cleared his throat and smiled helpfully.

"What if I were to tell you that I was the men's singles champion at Wilshire Country Club in 1967, and I can judge a tennis match better than Ursula Andress gives a Swedish massage?"

Bob Ryan cocked his eyebrows. "Is that something you might be interested in?"

* * *

The Chase brothers lost that first set six-love, but coming into the second with a fair ump in the chair, Vince and Drama had each held serve, and were now up two games to one.

Breckin served to Drama, firing a shot up the center line. Drama got behind it with a crushing forehand and drilled the return straight back between Breckin and Seth. It bounced squarely between them and hit the back wall resoundingly.

"How do you like them apples, boys?" Drama called. Vince held out his racquet and they gently high-fived with the heads.

"Just warming up, Melrose," Breckin retorted.

Drama sauntered up to the net. "I'm gonna break your serve like your sister's hymen."

"I think that boat already sailed, tough guy," Seth said.

Breckin looked over at Seth. "Fuck you, man."

"What? I never hit that," Seth said.

Drama ran his forearm along his brow and push off a bucket of sweat. He turned to the stands again. Turtle's seat remained vacant. "Fuckin Turtle."

A ball boy ran over, and—in an enthusiastically misguided attempt to help—tossed a brilliantly white towel onto Drama's shoulder. It lassoed around his collar bone and clung solidly to his soaked torso.

"_Mother fucker!"_ Drama jerked and whipped the towel off of himself like it was a rattlesnake. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?" he screamed at the ball boy, who had already retreated to the court's wall.

"That's a warning, Johnny," Bob Ryan said. "Get a hold of yourself."

"How can I calm down when I smell Agassi's taint on my fucking clothes?"

Bob pursed his flappy lips in disapproval. "That's another one. This is a gentleman's game."

Vince hissed at Drama. "Cut the shit or you're gonna get ejected."

"Hey Five Towns," Seth called. "When you doused Brooke Shields, did you clean up with studio towels or do you keep your own stock for that sort of thing?"

"Fuck you, you little cocksucker!" Drama threw his racquet at the opposing side. It flew over the net, flipping end over end, forcing Seth to duck away from it.

Bob Ryan shot to his feet. "Abuse! Unsportsman-like conduct. Johnny Chase is ejected."

* * *

Turtle dropped into the seat next to E, who was watching the scene on the court in forlorn disbelief.

Turtle was out of breath. E finally noticed him.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Turtle smiled. "Bangin Breckin Meyer's assistant. She is a _freak_, bro." He turned to face the court. "What's going on? We winning?"

* * *

After making his usual apologies to Vince, Drama walked off the court, head hung in shame.

Vince stood under the chair, looking up at Bob. "So now what?"

Bob put a hand over the mike. "This reminds me of the time Steve McQueen hit Dusty Hoffman in the balls with a pitching wedge at the Beverly Hills Golf Club. He—

"Bob, please," Vince said. "The match."

"Be patient, Vincent," Bob said crossly. Seth and Breckin now came to the base of the chair as well. "You can select a replacement partner, but he has to be mutually agreed on by all players."

"That's easy," Seth said. "Because there's only one guy here I'm willing to agree to play against."

"And who's that?" Vince asked.

Seth pointed into the stands. "Eric Murphy."

_**To be continued…**_


End file.
